Compulsion
by thattookaturnforthenerdy
Summary: Co-write with Vanyiah; Not all those who boast understanding of the arts can truly capture the life and characteristics of the human soul. Hannibal may have found someone who can do just that. *read more inside, better than summary* *Hannibal/OFC pairing* *set between seasons 1 & 2, so no jailed Will*
1. Prolouge

Prologue

The young woman turned her head, watching all the passerby in the gallery. She flashed a comely smile at the security guard, nodding her head. The little place had just opened on Rickerby street; called 'La petite mort', the gallery centered on a Gothic theme. They boasted a new selection of art every week, by undiscovered and often anonymous artists. The people with their green hair, ear spikes, and rose tattoos were looking at the Victorian scenes before them, enjoying the deft strokes of the canvas. She was there for an altogether more sinister reason. The young woman herself was an artist, of a varying kind, looking for inspiration. So far, the bright light of genius had evaded her.

Her heels clicked against the white tile floor of the gallery as her long legs carried her further through the macabre world of the imitation Victorian art. No one paid her a second glance as she eased through the decent sized crowd. A once over was enough for those who saw her in the simplicity of her black romper. Nevertheless, clothes were always the best disguises for women. Like in the famous footsteps of the Dutch spy Mata Hari, she too would hide herself from the world; she too would wear her clothes as an emblem of deception.

As she stepped through the portals the art created, vastly disappointed with the worlds she was taken to, the repetition of death, every artist doing it the same – the dull color schemes making her heart ache for the potential these anonymous donors had – the talent they were wasting. The lack of true human feeling was evident, and it disgusted her core.

But there she stood, somehow managing to fly through the paintings as if they were not worthy of a second glance, much as the crowd around her ignored her outward simplicity, her choice of a neutral color in this neutral world. She grew tired of the talentless swine that this gallery had allowed to inhabit its soul, and turned to leave.

She paused momentarily, hesitating, wondering if she judged far too quickly; and it would be a shame to walk out before she had seen the 'special donation' she had heard the crowd whisper amongst themselves about. She set herself straight and turned around again, walking back down the hallway, past the imitators, past the artists who sold themselves short, the people who were nothing like her. They had not had what it took to discover what true art could be, and would not be invited into the fold of her transcendental art movement.

She reached the end of the hallway; hanging before her was a large framed canvas. It was not the size of the piece that had entrapped her, but the subject within. She felt it as soon as she lay her almond eyes upon it that it was something worth re-doing, worth making _better. _She looked at the plaque on the wall, wondered whom she should acknowledge for bringing her her light in the darkness, but it had been donated anonymously. She had wanted to pay thanks in a more personal way, but a silent thank-you sent heavenward was all she would be able to manage this time.

Her fingers itched at her sides, ready for work, as her eyes brushed across the detail, memorizing every brush stroke, every change in color, so she could re-create it in exact dimensions; a work this inspiring, it needed to be done right. A smile painted her red lips as she turned on her heel and stalked past the crowd, standing tall above them, already making lists in her mind. There was so much she needed to do, and so much, she needed to find.

**A/N: Hey there, hope you enjoyed the little teaser for what is to come! Just a note, this will be co-written with my favorite person Vanyiah, who also a fanfiction account that you need to check out because she is awesome; she has a Sherlolly fic that I'm addicted to so if that's your thing go read it!**

**Vanyiah: Hello friends! Can't wait to show you the craziest story we've come up with together. All good things to those who eat the rude. Really though, stay around and patiently wait by our side as we clear up this rocky road to ruin.**


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Hannibal moved purposely about the kitchen, _Ave Maria_ for the violin playing in the background, allowing him to drown out the thoughts from his latest session with Will Graham. His friend had sat on his couch no more than an hour ago and explained his further descent into madness on Jack Crawford's most recent case, a tale of insanity itself. He was worried about his friend, but also intrigued at how his mind handled each new scenario, each new killer.

The music quickly allowed Hannibal to push these thoughts aside however and to focus on the knife quickly and elegantly slicing through the flesh and muscle of the veal, today's second course. The violin hit a sharp note as the steam from the boiling pot of water rose, signaling its readiness for the meat and vegetables of his dish. It was an easy activity to gently usher the leeks inside the pot edges as the onions formed the main semi-transparent vegetable circle. Almost like the crowning piece to a work of art, Hannibal carefully placed the thin slices of veal inside the boiling circle. An amused grin split his features as the violin dropped to a quiet, yet soothing, lull, and he watched with satisfaction as his meal bobbed into place.

As the meat and vegetables cooked, he turned his attention to a glass bowl; filled with only a few ingredients, he gently picked up his whisk and as the thrumming lull of the violin repeated, he gently whisked the dill sauce into existence. Setting the bowl down, he checked the clock on the oven. His veal and leeks had been cooking only a few short minutes, but he liked his meat on the light side of medium. He pulled a white plate from the cabinet, and set it on the counter next to the pot; scooping the thin slices of meat out he set them delicately on the plate, followed by the leeks and onions. He scooped out a healthy amount of the dill sauce and placed it gently next to everything else; after a healthy dash of salt and pepper, and a light garnish of the dill itself, the portrait of his lunch was complete.

He was just about to raise knife and fork to his culinary creation when there was a knock at the door. He looked slightly irritated before masking it behind a calm façade of curiosity. Striding through the kitchen, and then living room, he answered his front door, only to be greeted by the grim faces of Jack Crawford and Will Graham.

"Doctor, hope we're not interrupting anything." Jack said as greeting.

"Of course not; please come in." He stepped aside, holding the door for the two men, and ushered them into the living room. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Will stood awkwardly in the room, as he always did, feeling as though, he did not belong among the lavish carpets and rich leather couches. Jack stood serenely, waiting for the good doctor's attention before he spoke.

"Doctor Lecter, we would like your insight on a case that has just come up; if we might take some time out of your afternoon, would you like to accompany us to the scene?"

Hannibal cocked his head slightly, studying Jack for a mere moment. The man was always soft-spoken, respectfully asking permission before doing anything, but this was Jack. He never really asked, he expected. Asking him politely was just a formality that he felt he need go through; maybe some part of Jack Crawford sensed the predator beneath, and was more cautious in his presence. He turned his careful attention to Will, who shuffled his feet, seemingly eager to leave the apartment; Hannibal wondered if it was because he was uncomfortable here, or because he wanted to return to the crime scene.

"What is so interesting about this case that you're asking me to profile it?" Hannibal wondered, turning his attentions back to Jack.

The older man raised a weary head to meet his gaze and looked over at Will, a gleam in his brown eyes. Will stopped looking around and faced the window as he spoke.

"I think, Doctor Lecter, it's something you should see for yourself."

Hannibal took a moment to think about his lunch, half-forgotten in the kitchen, and the look on Will Graham's face.

"Alright; let me get my coat."

†

Jack lifted the yellow crime scene tape, Hannibal sliding underneath with ease. Will followed closely, and Hannibal could sense the anticipation the young man held. The car had brought them to the Baltimore Somerset Outdoor Mall, a relatively new structure that had only been open a few years. Beyond the yellow tape a group had gathered, as always happened when the blaring red and blue lights were heard, ushering the noise of discontent in their community. The flies would always come to an open wound.

"What are these people doing here?" Jack yelled at the officers, pointing to the group gathered behind the tape. "You know to disperse civilians!"

Hannibal left Jack to his own devices, as he followed quietly behind Will, who was heading further towards the actual scene and, Hannibal noted, further from reality. It seemed with every step his friend took he sunk further into the recesses of his mind and became less himself, and more of the idea of the person who had committed the crime. Will stepped aside, and allowed Hannibal his first view of the scene. The bickering of Jack, the emptiness of Will, everything was wiped from his mind and was filled with the vision before him.

He immediately thought of the story of the Little Match Girl, and inwardly appreciated the artist's attention to detail. Because this was a true work of art; lying against the base of the fountain, a little blonde girl, no more than seven, lay curled in on herself, almost as if hugging her bones to keep the warmth inside. She was surrounded by a small pile of burnt matchsticks, and was still clutching one in her tiny hand. Her blue eyes were half-closed, and upon closer inspection, her lips were a blended shade of blue and purple, suggesting hypothermia.

Next to the little girl, stood an old woman, a gentle smile touching her wrinkled face. She held her arms out, open, accepting the little girl's soul, just like in the story. Drawn on her open palms was the image of a star, the falling star that ushered the grandmother's soul forth to carry her granddaughter. Hannibal stood straight, a small smile touching his otherwise stoic features. He noticed Will out of the corner of his eye, slowly becoming himself again.

"The little girl was done first; she had to be, she's the centerpiece." Will said, stooping over to examine her closer. Hannibal noted the look of revulsion, of nausea that came over Will's features. "Whoever did this has an immense amount of patience – setting the bodies, the clothing, the makeup, that all took time. At least a month to find his victims and embalm them, or whatever he's done to set their tissue like this."

"Hannibal?" Jack asked, silently stepping up beside the two men. His face as well, Hannibal could see, showed slight hints of hatred; it seemed the two FBI men agreed as to their thoughts on the killer. They were disgusted by him, repulsed by how he could do something so…barbaric. The older man hid it well after many years on the force, but still, his disdain was there. Hannibal however, was glad that he had come along. It was always pleasant to see Baltimore's blooming talent and to be privy to how other critics thought of the work he and the other artists of the city worked so hard on. It was pleasant to know that they were well thought of enough to cause Jack Crawford to look like he was uncomfortable, crawling in his skin.

"Clearly the work of someone who sees themselves as a budding artist; they want to be seen, and appreciated, not unlike Tobias Budge. Unmistakably he wants his work critiqued; why else put it out in the open where everyone could see?" He turned to Jack. "Not unlike the main exhibit in a gallery is it, out here?" He gestured to the wide-open space of the mall. "They've set up first and are filling a museum with their work as it is discovered."

Jack nodded, taking in the information Hannibal had given him. "Thank you Doctor Lecter, sorry to take up so much of your time. If you might, would it be all right to ask you out again, if more of these crop up?"

Hannibal nodded his head. "Of course, Jack; you can come to me at any time."

The men shook hands and Hannibal departed, heading back towards the car that had brought him here, leaving Jack and Will to further investigation.

Hannibal perceived that 'The Little Match Girl' was an opening piece, a statement and an obvious call for feedback, not to mention adoration from curious fans. Yet a question still held an uneasy feeling; would he receive another invitation from the artist? Would he be allowed to see the opening of an exclusive new gallery for the FBI? He knew the growing art collection was one he wanted to see; whatever happened, he was thoroughly interested in the talented person bringing these works to life.

†

The young woman went easily unnoticed in the crowd, her casual yet demure clothes once again hiding her in plain sight. The best disguises were ones you could wear in the open, and required minimal work. Her ears burned as she caught the stream of words that flowed about her, out of the mouths of the curious onlookers surrounding her. She listened however to their critiques and comments as an artist should, arguing that it would help her grow and diversify herself. As she listened, she also looked; paying her attention mostly to the pale man with the curly hair who stood still, looking at her creation. His back was to her so she could not see much but he seemed to be inhabiting his innermost self, and ignoring everything and everyone around him. The older black man was heard shouting at the officers under him to get rid of her, get rid of the people she stood with; she decided then she did not like his harsh voice or the way he threw himself about the scene.

The other man, the third musketeer, stood silently, appraising her work it seemed. She watched him closely, herself fascinated with what she saw. He was cool, collected, looking nothing like anyone else on the site – he alone seemed unfazed by what he saw; in fact, he looked almost…affected…as if it were any other normal field trip to the art museum. He appreciated it, appreciated her. Her heart filled with joy and pride as she stared at him, staring at her work. Before the officers ushered them off the premises, she caught his name, being said by the man who threw his weight around. _Hannibal. _She thought, savoring it. _Now that is a name. _

She smiled as she walked, alone on the way to her car. "That was fun."

**A/N: Hey, nerdy here, hope you enjoyed chapter 1! We'll definitely be working more but between work and family not sure how often we'll be able to update! I'll say at least once a week, like Sunday, because that's our day off but no guarantees! We will be working our darndest to churn this out for you, while still maintaining quality work (this is quality work right?)**

**Vanyiah: *nods* I'd hope this is quality work! What with the best minds on the dot over here! It's quite a lot of fun writing these things out with Nerdy. A lot of stress mixed with the intensity of melding ideas and words together. I hope everyone likes the steady opening thus far! Leave us a review or small comment on your own personal thoughts so far! Invisible cookies for you, and you, and you, and you over there in the corner! **

**Nerdy: *cookies for those who review, a la Oprah***


	3. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Hannibal stepped under the police tape, the second time in three months. The large crowd of press and officers need not tell Hannibal told that something reminiscent from the past had fallen over Baltimore once more. Amongst murmurings and mentions of a little girl and an old lady, he could discern that this was another invitation to the gallery of the bewitching.

"Doctor Lecter."

"Jack." Hannibal held out his hand for a friendly shake.

Jack Crawford took it, looking at the scene Hannibal had just pushed through.

"It doesn't get much better in here." Jack said, nodding towards the door behind him.

"Well under the circumstances I'm not surprised." Hannibal allowed Jack to usher him into the building. "Murders like this, ones that appear as the twisted delusions these do, scare people who are used to everyday crime; it does not surprise me that there is a large police presence today."

"Yes, I often wish we met on better terms." Jack acknowledged. "And I will agree Doctor Lecter that the common man is often scared of what he doesn't understand."

"Are you afraid Jack?" Hannibal asked, pausing in the hall to stare at the man.

Jack stared at the psychiatrist for a moment, studying his face, before answering. "I admit that these cases have me rattled, and it is harder to go to sleep at night in my bed with a dying woman. But we will understand him, and there won't be anything to be afraid of."

Hannibal allowed a small smile to cross his face as Jack carried on ahead of him. Yes, the common man was often afraid. It was good then, that Hannibal was so very, very, exceptional.

Hannibal took in the sights around him as Jack led him to where the newest body lay; he could tell that once the building had been a place of grandeur, and opulence. Now however it was rundown, falling apart; the once scarlet curtains had turned a mustard-brown and the peeling mold on the walls told as to their state. He thought it was a wonder the place was even still open.

They reached what had once been the Baltimore Golden Bell Music Hall. Jack put a hand on the once shining, and now rust-stained, door handle, and turned to look at Hannibal.

"Doctor Lecter, _The Violin Student._"

†

The young woman succinctly buttoned her coat in hopes to block out the chill of the early December Baltimore air as she prepared to exit the building.

"Bye, Anino! Have a good rest of the day! Be careful out there!" a chorus of female voices rang from the rear of the salon as the girls waved at the Asian female.

A smile sprung up instantly on Anino's face, and she raised her hand to wave back as she replied, "Thank you! I'll see you trouble makers later!"

The fading music of women giggling followed her out the door as she gave one final good-bye to her friends. Her boots made small tapping noises as she walked down the long sidewalk. Rather glad she had a few hours to herself, before her next job at the art studio started. A gush of cold wind blew up against Anino, and she became increasingly grateful that her long black hair was tucked safely underneath her scarf. Heaven only knew the many times her hair had gotten free, and tried to break away from her head, and fly into the sunset with the wind.

A bell chimed as Anino threw herself against the entry door.

"Afternoon, Marci!" the Asian woman more than ran quickly into the cafe as she was chased by another flow of cold wind.

The cafe owner's daughter raised an inquisitive eyebrow at the trussed up bundle of entangled scarf, and dark hair of the other female. Through wind, snow, and hail, Marci would give her friend the benefit of the doubt of incorporating her interesting choice of fashion at this time of the year. Always well dressed, but out of place for Baltimore. An elegance and outdated vibe emitted from the Asian female. Though speaking of which, Marci did believe that Anino had a sense of confidence and bravery for pulling off a floral dress with bright wine colored tights.

"You off at the studio today?" Marci inquired softly as Anino's dark eyes scanned the menu above her. Marci's eyes followed hers, curious as to what delicacy she would experience this time. Last week, it was Marci's famous Shepard's Pie.

"Only Friday and Saturday." Anino replied aimlessly as she chewed on her bottom lip. "I'll try that mixed salad you keep talking about."

Anino had already pulled out her wallet and was filing through the various dollar bills she had. Her dark eyes looked up at the total, settled on the five-dollar bill, and handed it to her friend with a small grin,

"Keep the change as a tip."

The young barista smiled back as she said her thanks, and in return handed back a water bottle.

"On the house. Go ahead and grab a chair, and I'll bring your food out."

Marci stepped off to the side as she busied herself. Dishes and silverware clanked and clinked as Anino walked off towards a table near the window with the cafe's logo embossed on the front. Somewhere above her, the local news anchor rambled on about the many community functions coming around this time of year. Nothing really catching onto her attention as dark eyes watched the many pedestrians pass by the glass window.

"Now, onto pressing news. Today we mourn the loss of a man who we have all come to know and love, as a prominent musical figure in the Baltimore community. Marianne has more on the subject..."

Oh, that was something right there. Anino slowly grinned into her hand as she covered her face to faux yawn. Her eyes watched the TV intently now, her mind running a million thoughts through her. Marianne gripped tightly at the microphone she held, her face colored red from the obvious cold that nipped at her tender skin,

"I'm standing here today at the two-hundred year old Baltimore Golden Bell Music Hall, and words escape me tonight. The body of legendary violinist, Dittmer Laus, was found hours earlier by local police. Officers are unwilling to give any more facts on the situation of Mr. Laus' body or if there was a hand of foul play..."

Oh, how her ears tingled and her fingers twitched at that name. Such raw and undiluted talent. Blessed with not only a timeless understanding of music, and its emotional connection, but those hands! How easily they flowed and produced music beyond any comprehension. Yes, Anino would indeed mourn the loss of such a heavenly man. The world never truly knowing how he could communicate music to bring one down to their knees and tears to their eyes.

Yet, no one needed to know just how meaningful he was to her. How his playing spoke to her on a deeper level, and it numbed the pain that pumped through her veins. His talent inspiring not only her, but her sister, Fatima, as well. Sweet Fatima, cut from the same cloth as he. Music and love strewn into one human being who had such compatibility with the violin; as if the instrument was made for Fatima especially. And the pain from her death was to be Anino's only residing companion.

Anino played with the salt and peppershaker as she remembered the softness in Fatima's face whenever she would play the old violin their Grandmother had passed onto her, all excitement, and readiness to master some stringed instrument. Fatima's interest and willingness to hone her craft reverted Anino back to being three years old and greedily eating at the chocolate cake batter, unwilling to wait for the cake that would surely come after. Even though her sister had been five years younger, Fatima had showed wisdom beyond her years. The younger had been able to sit for hours at a time, gaining calluses and hard hands to learn something important to her. The older could not wait and had missed many opportunities to hone her own talents and specialties – until now.

The female reporter's voice came back into focus as Anino came out of her reverie.

"We will be keeping you updated as the police give us more information to share with the public. Until then, this has been Marianne Reed reporting for Channel 7 news."

The TV abruptly came out of focus as Marci's arm waved in front of her face, catching Anino's attention. She set the salad down in front of her.

"Tell me how you like it, OK?" Marci told her, holding a tray of food in her other hand.

"I will!" Anino assured with a bright smile, her dark eyes glinting with mischief and promise, something Marci waved off as the other female' s particular quirkiness.

†

"Doctor Lecter, _The Violin Student." _

Jack ushered Hannibal into the dingy room, and almost as if a choreographed dance, the officers on scene moved as one so that suddenly the body of the dead violinist was revealed to him. For a brief moment, he looked almost alive still. Skin sustaining a warmth and peace that gave the aged music hall a sort of nostalgic atmosphere, his half-closed lids retaining a last treasured glance at the instrument he held in his hands. His black tuxedo held the fresh 'right from my closet' press and upon closer inspection, the garment appeared to be cut from decades old cloth.

Hannibal stood up straight and looked at Jack. "This suit was taken from his home; it's old, probably one he wore during his first performances."

He took a quick cursory glance around at the room. "You said this was _The Violin Student?"_

Jack nodded. "It was left as the title of the sheet music he is supposed to be playing, right there."

Hannibal followed Jack's gaze to the sheet music on the stand in front of Mr. Laus' chair; indeed, there in a fine scripted hand, were the words _The Violin Student, Paris. _

Hannibal stood up straight and looked around; there were many more discoveries to be had he was sure. He turned to Jack and bowed his head slightly.

"Do you mind, if I play detective for a little while?" He asked Jack, his accented tongue very much sounding like the vocal embodiment of crushed velvet.

Jack looked strangely at the psychiatrist, wondering why he felt the need to ask permission. "Of course."

Hannibal nodded his head gratefully and crisply removed his coat and suit jacket; he handed them to an officer, giving him a glare that said 'be careful with my precious things'. He rolled his shirtsleeves and snapped a pair of latex gloves against his wrist. He looked around one more time, almost wondering.

"Where is Will?" He asked, finally realizing what had been missing. Hannibal was almost embarrassed that it had taken him this long to remember his friend, colleague, and patient.

"Will was visiting with Abigail Hobbs when the call came in. He'll be here later." Jack told him.

Hannibal nodded, no longer concerned, and turned to begin his examinations. If Will was with Abigail, that was fine; the two broken birds needed time to fix their wings.

Jack followed Hannibal's fingers as they pointed to various parts of Mr. Laus' black suit. Particles of dust had settled over his slicked back hair and shoulders in a thin layer. Somewhat suggesting he had been there for some time but not too long to have any serious consequence on the body. He was placed precariously in the old weathered down wooden chair to be posed elegantly with the antiquated violin that shone brilliantly in the dim light, a beacon to Dittmer Laus' spirit as it traveled to the other side. Something that Hannibal noted held symbolism over the entire piece; something about this scene in general held a passing of sorts. Perhaps letting go of the past and honoring what Mr. Laus was and would always be. A wealth he gave freely to the public. A wealth that was his music. A wealth that was immortalized. Forever.

Hannibal carefully opened the man's hands and removed the violin and bow from him. He set it down gingerly on the table next to him and began feeling Dittmer's neck for trauma or looking for laceration marks or possibly even puncture wounds. Anything to give him a clue as to how the man had been killed; he knew postmortems were never rushed and Hannibal had a few theories Jack's gaze roamed over the body, observing what he could with the details left before them. The body was clearly taken care of more than that of the Match Girl's. A certain tenderness and care that went into every step of preserving the tissue, down to the clothes, and the grooming that came with it. Even the shoes had been recently shined; the smell of shoe cleaner still permeated the air. Dittmer Laus was as special as he was ancient and forgotten; but not to the killer—whoever they were. To him, Laus was as present as a family member.

Hannibal could tell nothing about the way he had been killed from his rudimentary investigation; he would have to wait patiently for the autopsy. He looked up to see Jimmy Price cutting a piece of the suit from the corpse.

"We need to test it, see how old it was. If you say it came from his house…" Jimmy shrugged, not bothering to finish his sentence.

"Jack, I think I am done here for today. There is nothing more I can tell you."

"You haven't told us anything Dr. Lecter." Jack pointed out.

Hannibal looked affronted, and slightly embarrassed, as he remembered that everything had been going on in his mind alone.

"You need Will Graham obviously, to tell you if I'm on the right track – but this man was important to our killer. He was well taken care of, more than the Little Match Girl or the old lady. His hair has been gelled, his suit pressed, his shoes shined. Whoever killed him wanted him to look like he was about to perform."

Hannibal swiped a finger down the cheek of the corpse. "He is even wearing makeup to give him an even skin tone, to not look so sallow."

Jack nodded his head. "Thank you Doctor, that's very helpful. I'm sure Will will be able to confirm a few of your suspicions."

Hannibal nodded his head, clearly sensing the dismissal, now that he was no longer needed. He turned to take off his gloves, and spied the violin that he had set down. Delicately, on a whim, he picked it up and flipped it over, so he could see the underside.

_Interesting. _He thought. _This is Laus' violin. _He looked over at the old man, new theories abounding.

"What is it Doctor?" Jack asked, seeing the way Hannibal stared at the stringed instrument.

"Nothing Jack, except Laus was a man after my own heart." Hannibal smiled as he motioned towards the underside of the violin. Faint etchings were carved and Jack squinted at the slight lettering and shook his head, unable to decipher the language or name.

"I don't understand it, Doctor Lecter. Can you?"

"Den der jager to Harer af een busk, faaer sieden nogen af dem_." _Hannibal said clearly, his voice sounding for the first time, as if it were the master of the language it spoke. 

"_You must not run after two hares at the same time._" Hannibal said softly, looking at the man with a slight glint in his eyes, a grin present as he spoke, and his voice again sounding crumpled by the English language. Jack almost missed the strange words that had just flowed from Hannibal's mouth; they sounded more natural, more _him. _

"Concentrate on one thing at a time, is what it literally means, Jack." He handed the violin to Jimmy who quickly bagged it.

"If you try to do more than one thing at once, your concentration wanes and you will end up with neither." Hannibal explained as he put his suit jacket back on, and then his coat. He removed the latex gloves and threw them in the trash.

The older black man gave the good Doctor a questioning look before he asked, "I take it you share the same insight as the good Mr. Laus here."

"Of course. We are both from Denmark, and besides—I was a big fan."

†

_3 months earlier…(October)_

At work, Anino and her friend Kiki were talking. All the other girls had clients who had come in, but somehow the 3:00 schedule had been open for both the girls, and no one had booked it. They sat in the lobby, drinking complimentary coffee and chatting, waiting for their 4:30 appointments.

While they were talking, Kiki began digging through her bag, nodding head at Anino's story, until she found what she had been rifling for. Triumphantly, she produced a ticket of some sort and handed it to Anino.

"What on Earth?" Anino instinctively took the ticket being placed in her hands. "What is this for?"

The other hair stylist folded her hands in her lap. "You like classical music right? Apparently, there is some big party down at the old music hall tonight. I was able to score a ticket from the boss; I figured I could maybe rub shoulders with some people while Mitch was out of town, get in good with a future boss of his." The woman raised a brow conspiratorially and Anino immediately understood.

Kiki's husband was a businessman and was out of town a lot. When he was in town, he hung out with a lot of people from the same firm. Kiki thought if she could make herself noticed, and talk Mitch up, he could get a promotion at the office and stay in town more.

"Well so why are you not going?" Anino asked, giving the ticket a more thorough look.

_Baltimore Golden Bell Music Hall, Admit One. One Laus Chance. _

"Mitch is getting back in town tonight; he caught an earlier flight out of Heathrow and I want to see him. It's been a month-and-a-half, and Skype calls are not enough." Kiki shrugged.

Anino's brow rose suggestively; she understood what her friend was implying, and did not want to go there. "Do you know anything about this party?" She asked.

"It's some sort of retirement party I guess. Some older guy from here who got pretty famous as a classical violinist." Kiki waved it off, not caring. "Please just say you'll go." She leaned in closer, to whisper: "I like you more than the other girls here, don't make me give it to one of them."

Anino hid a giggle behind her hand. "Of course I'll go for you." She twiddled the ticket she held in her hands. "Do you at least know the violinist they're celebrating?"

Kiki stood up and stretched, checking her watch. "Some guy…Laus, something. Dittmer? I don't know it was a weird name."

"Dittmer Laus?" Anino wondered aloud, hoping against hope it was true.

The man was something of a hero to her; he had been the inspiration for her little Fatima wanting to be a violin player. Through all of her health struggles she continued to practice the violin every day, just as he had when he was sick. The chance to meet him was too good a one to pass up.

"Thank you so much Kiki!" Anino stood up and threw her arms around the older woman, planting a soft kiss on her cheek.

Kiki returned the affectionate gesture, a little confused why her friend would be suddenly so happy. "It's just a boring party Anino, calm down."

Kiki disentangled herself from the other woman, and excused herself as she had a client coming in soon.

Anino carefully placed the ticket in her bag and went back out on the floor with her friend, unable to wait for the event later that evening.

By the time she was off work it was already 5:30. She was in a frantic rush, tearing her closet apart, trying to find something reasonable and sophisticated to wear. She needed something that was a statement, made her presence known, but not astonishingly brash or noticeable. She wanted to be seen, not remembered.

Her gaze fell to a box at the bottom of her closet, her fingers opening the top and removing the black romper inside from its tissue paper hiding spot. It had been an impulse buy, the full lace sleeves garnering her attention in the first place. In any other instance she would have walked away from the romper, expensive as it was; she was not known to spend more than $30 on a single item of clothing. Indeed she was more known for her trips to Goodwill and Salvation Army to find her staple pieces. Best to count one's blessings, she thought to herself, glad for having bought the item now.

She slipped the soft garment on and sauntered over to her vanity, combing out her hair while she looked in the mirror. She needed to get the black tendrils in exactly the right places. She pieced her hair into a French braid crown, keeping the look in place by pinning little gem affectations into her hair.

Her hair and outfit done, she took time to look her face over. The makeup that she had worn to work simply would not do, and she had washed her face to give herself a blank working canvas. Tonight was important and she had to get it right. One could not look too simple, and not the part of a confident killer. Such graces took time, indeed.

Anino looked down at her vanity table, eyeing the many makeup brushes strewn about, eye shadow singles shoved off to the side, and various makeup palettes stacked on top of each other. The drawer below was pulled open, lipstick tubes rolling about as her fingers shuffled through, before she made a decision on a deep matte cranberry. She artfully settled the color in the middle of her lip, blending outward with her finger just as her Inay had taught her.

A little brushing here, a little blending of the blush and the masterpiece was almost there. The gold eye shadow she had always favored making its final entry into society, blending over Anino's soft eyelids. Everything looked together and complimentary. The colors thrived on her skin tone and complimented her overall look well enough. She took one last look in the mirror as she thought, never a loud appearance, but always a pretty face.

_Later that Evening…(October)_

Anino grabbed her next morsel off a gilded plate as a waiter walked by; she had already sampled a few of the evening's delicacies and a fine chef clearly had prepared them. She popped it quickly into her mouth, hoping the taste of fine food would calm her fraying nerves. The well-cooked salmon and tartar sauce and dandelion leaf tasted fresh as it slid down her throat. She quickly washed it down with a swish from her champagne glass.

She had been mingling at the party for the better part of an hour now, and Mr. Laus was still nowhere to be seen. She hoped his failing health had not gotten the better of him tonight. She turned her head to stare at the clock on the wall, and there, mingling with the social elite of the Baltimore public, was Dittmer Laus.

Her heart began to flutter, revealing just how nervous she truly was. Now that she was confronted with his presence, she had no idea how to tell him just how much he truly meant to her. Words escaped her, and were not enough. She needed to really show him…to let him know.

The man looked good for being nearly sixty-seven; his face betrayed barely a wrinkle except when he smiled. The lines around his mouth and on his forehead became quite evident whenever he did so. His eyes were still wide with the wonderment of a child, the piercing green the same as on his first album cover. His snow-white hair was gelled back into an elegant pomp and he was still just as tall and thin as he had always seemed to her from his photographs. His thin lips broke into a smile with every new greeting from a guest, his wrinkled hands eagerly shaking the unlined ones of his much younger invitees.

Anino knew that she had to act, had to invite herself over to his circle, but she could not bring herself to move. This man and his music had brought her so much comfort over the years that to see him as he was now broke her heart. She steeled herself, drinking one last time from her glass, before setting it on the tray of a passing waiter. She walked over to where he and a younger man were conversing, and very sweetly, introduced herself.

"Mr. Laus?" She seemed to hesitate as the words left her lips, suddenly unsure if she should not pretend nothing had been spoken and back away.

The man turned around slowly, his back hunching slightly as he did so.

"Hello darling." He said softly, his accent sparking delightfully off his tongue.

"Mr. Laus I," Anino held her hands up, struggling for words, "I don't know how to tell you how important your music has been to me."

The old man's eyes lit up at hearing the words, and he turned to dismiss the younger man, sensing a story in the young woman's words and gestures.

"My grandson, Baldur." He told her, after the young man had stepped away. "One of the few at this party who will remember me." His tone was sad, wistful. "Now, why don't you let this old man sit, love, and tell me what you want to say."

Dittmer Laus held out his arm for her to hold as he led her to a secluded corner of the room, and waited patiently for her to seat herself on one of the old velvet couches. He sat next to her and put a gentle hand on her knee.

"Now dear, tell me what's on your mind."

It was almost too much to bear, hearing the words her father should have been there to say, coming from the lips of the man whose music had raised her. She would have taken Dittmer over her father any day.

"My little sister took up the violin because of you. My mother used to play your albums, and it made Fatima want to be a violinist. She was ever so good, and practiced hard every day for hours, to the point where her fingers bled and she grew calluses on top of calluses."

Dittmer listened intently, staring at the younger woman with a serene expression. Her story clearly mattered to her, so it mattered to him. He could see the wisdom in those dark eyes, and wondered why her appearance deceived the matured soul residing within her.

"She was nine when our mother died, and father couldn't cope with the loss. At fifteen, I became her world. I took care of her, I supported her talents, and took her to lessons. I never let her miss one. Then finally, when Fatima was sixteen, she became very sick. Became too weak to play, and she could barely lift her hands. But she still listened to your music. She persevered and vowed to get better, like you had, to continue on her dream."

Anino's voice became thick with unshed tears and Dittmer took the young woman's hands in his own, consoling her with soft noises.

"She died very soon after that, having gotten out of bed to try playing. She couldn't support herself and fell, cracking her head on the nightstand."

The heavy burden was almost transferred to the older gentleman. Understanding the darkness that loomed over her was still present; a darkness he too familiarized with. Bless her; the young woman probably blamed herself.

"I never stopped listening to your compositions. The two years I have had to live without her, your music is the one thing that has kept me sane. Kept me going, you see?"

"Oh darling, I am so sorry about your sister. How painful that must be, losing the only family left to you. I understand entirely."

Anino looked up, the tears that threatened to fall held at bay.

"My own wife died shortly after the birth of our daughter, and I had to raise her all alone. Many times I wondered if she would have done a better job, or the things she could have taught her that I was unable. Many things she has learned from her mother-in-law here." Dittmer shook his head. "But I never once regretted having the child; my wife left something precious behind, and it is the only piece of her I have left, in my little Daimi."

He seemed to think for a moment. "Well, not little; she's the mother of the strapping young man I just shooed away." He laughed with delight and his green eyes shone.

However, Anino could sense an underlying sadness. The man truly believed that he was alone now; his family was gone and all grown-up. A forgotten beautiful novel that was inexcusably shoved away. Though he had been famous once, many had forgotten his name. Truly, many at the party had no idea who he was, and like Kiki, had come because the tickets had been won. Not her; not Anino.

Anino covered his wrinkled hands in hers, gripping desperately, trying to make him understand what she was about to say. Praying above all else that he would become her Madonna; her pillar of light one more time. One last time.

"Mr. Laus, your music was important to my sister, and important to me. Let me show you how significant, please. The world deserves to remember you and your music for the gift that it is. Let me do this for you."

The older man looked at the look that had come across the younger woman's gaze, the passion and hunger…but not for him. No, this was something else entirely he decided. That sort of hunger was reserved for men and women who were driven with a cause. Their dogma. Their Magna Carta.

"Min lille ven, whatever are you talking about?" He asked softly, still in the decidedly soft tones of his old age.

Anino took a chance; she wanted him to be honored, and she wanted him to agree to it. If not, the police would surely be called and her homage to her sister forgotten, as she rotted away in prison. She leaned up and whispered, almost conspiratorially, in his ear, how she would honor his legacy. How no more pain would befall his blessed person. His death would be painless as it would be forever in stone.

He listened, giving every word the good grace to hear it spoken. When finished, she shied away, almost embarrassed, and sat there to let him think. He felt almost taken aback, such things shouldn't plague such a sweet creature, he thought. However, looks were deceiving, and he felt the slight fear fade off without much after thought. If anything, he should have been happy that such a pretty dear would even insinuate such an act. After a moment's silence, he turned his head to look down at her.

"I am terminal you know. I could drop any day, min ven. I do not want to die not knowing when; I want to control it, and I do want to be remembered." He took her hand in his, and squeezed it affectionately. Knowing that his action had sealed the deal. Knowing this night he would become his own Memento Mori.

"Allow me to say goodbye to Baldur, to seem as if I am retiring for the night. I shall grab my violin and an old suit, as you have so beautifully envisioned. After all, if I die, I shall die with my own things."

His papery hand left hers as he stood. Finding the faces of his family to carry him on with the plan. An encouragement for a dead man.

"I shall be down in a few minutes; wait for me by the door."

She nodded, unsure if he was actually agreeing, or feigning a very clever ruse. Her heart soared and leaped however, grateful that he at least was entertaining the idea of becoming a beautiful work in her gallery.

Anino watched as he did indeed clasp Baldur's hand and hug him, then carry on up the stairs. The young man's eyes followed behind him, watching as he made it safely up the stairs. She worked her way carefully through the crowd, getting no nearer to his family than she had to, and stood as near the door as she could without seeming suspicious. Almost ten minutes later she felt a tap on her shoulder, and Dittmer Laus was grinning like a fool behind her.

"The servants staircase; none of these people are old enough to have been here while it was still in use. Come on." And so he offered his arm again as they walked to her car.

A slight thrill elicited through his body at the thought of running away with a younger woman. It brought a smile to his wizened features. Silly thoughts for a silly man, indeed.

On their way across the lot, she asked, "Just to satisfy my curiosity, why did you agree Mr. Laus?"

"Because I am tired of living. Death shall be my Master tonight, and I shall succumb willingly to her cold embrace. Besides, fælles sorg er halv sorg." He slipped into his tongue with a shrug.

Dittmer smiled at her confused look. "I forget sometimes that not everyone is from the old country. A shared sorrow is half sorrow, my dear. And I am sure we have more than one in common."

†

They sat next to each other in the living room, Dittmer taking full advantage of the love seat as he eased comfortably back into it. The cushions agreed with his old and tired body. He observed the brown lady next to him, her eyes filled with adoration and care for the elderly man before her. Anino's heart beat calmly against her ribs, watching the aged face that gave her a tenderness she had experienced only now. She wondered if that was the look, a father was supposed to bestow upon a daughter. She had never thought about it before.

"My manners, I apologize. Would you like a cup of tea? I'm sure it would do some good to warm you up." Her small soft hand barely touching the back of his. Possibly afraid that he was merely a dream or part of her imagination. Something they both wished to not be true, either side enjoying the warmth between them, and the secret they now shared.

"Only if you are willing to spare some to these lonely bones." His accent was the sugar to her present as he spoke. His music had guided her in the past, and she found his voice guiding her in the present. She could only wonder at what would be there in the future.

"As a matter of fact, I would be honored." He continued.

"Well, then I would be honored to make you a pot. Of course, only if you are willing to watch me." The invitation did not go unnoticed and the old violinist more than willingly complied. This young lady reminded him of the day he had met his wife. A reward for him if he was willing to challenge himself to achieve a goal. He shook off the fond memories of the past and focused on the woman in his present.

"Delighted, of course; perhaps you could help me to the kitchen?" Dittmer took her hands firmly as she supported him, standing from the couch. With an arm placed around his waist, it was then he noted how tiny she was compared to him. Like a flower under the palm of a giant. A Danish giant.

The small trek to the kitchen took barely any time at all. He found himself leaning against the marble kitchen counter watching the tiny artist work. Even here he could feel the sort of lived in comfort this house had. He drank in the environment with a curious thirst, her delicate porcelain figures were placed thoughtfully throughout the house. Unfortunately, there were a lack of family pictures. If anything at all, Anino had only one portrait of what he assumed to be her mother and sister in the living room.

Perhaps an unconscious or conscious decision to immortalize them in the smallest of ways. Even then, nothing got past the old Danish man. Her father must not have been such a prominent figure, just as she had told him. Nothing in this house told him she was influenced by the opposite sex or was even remotely attached. Nothing save for what he saw to be older albums of his.

Anino overcompensated for a possible lost female figure in her life. Surrounding herself with the ideals of the sweetness and romance of being a woman. One broken soul understanding another. _If only I had met you after the death of my wife_, he thought.

Anino worked fast, pulling the tea set from the cupboard, and feeling a sort of excitement from the way the dim light made the gold trimmings glow. The hand painted blue flowers of the delicate China only edged on the idea of Anino to Dittmer. He had never seen such raw talent so peacefully content in their environment. Working with what was around her rather than working against the tug and pull at life. That was what the world had forgotten. Fighting the many hardships of life as if it were the enemy; not taking the lessons and opportunities to make a better future. However, not this child before him. No, he could see the confidence and light dancing behind her fingertips as they ached to work the dexterity given life to them.

"You seem to be rather talented with your hands." Dittmer said fondly.

The young woman blushed and said nothing, continuing as her small hands paraded around her cabinets for the imported tea she had purchased. He was slightly pleased that he had been able to make her blush, before admonishing himself with a small shake of his head. The woman was fifty years his junior, and his murderer.

"Earl Grey?" Anino finally spoke as she opened the wooden box that held the delicious aromatic tea.

"My favorite." Dittmer responded with an attractive smile that made her stomach flip. _If only one of us had been born in a different age, _she thought wistfully. However the cards had fallen this way, and these were the hands they had been dealt.

"Mine as well." A truce between them seemed evident.

He rather enjoyed watching the young lady work. The kettle whistling rather loudly as she briskly picked it up, and poured the hot steaming water over the tealeaves. Soon, the transparent liquid became murky, almost a dusty brown, until it reached its full chocolate color. A few clinks here and there from the golden spoons resting in their tea filled cups. Anino whisked by him, retrieving fresh milk from her fridge, and honey from her pantry.

There was no rush in her actions, considering what was to come, but she moved with ease and grace that told of her repeating the action a million times over.

"Do you usually make tea for dead men walking?" Dittmer asked nonchalantly as Anino came up to his side to slowly walk him to the dining room. Small cakes and cookies were laid out beautifully over China plates and delicate doilies. A tea party specifically for two people, how adorable.

"Only for the ones I like." Anino whispered up at the violinist, her eyes smiling at him at the confession. "As you can tell, I like you, quite a lot."

Dittmer rolled his head back to laugh at the statement; the young thing had fire in her that amused him. Such a sweet yet deadly flower, she was!

"Rest now, I'll go get the tea pot." Anino slowly helped the man into the wooden chair, and patted his shoulder affectionately, conveying the action as if he were her Grandfather.

And as she walked away, a slight bit of doubt sought after his heart. Perhaps he had gone senile enough to agree to such a ridiculous deal. However, one should merely be grateful that his killer was attractive. Yes, count your blessings, Dittmer. Count them well.

On the other hand, this was probably the easiest way to go. Controlling what he could and having had the choice to die in a way that was beauty embodied. Only a handful of people have had the luxury, he sarcastically told himself. No, this would be good for him. His family was well off, his legacy left to his grandchildren. His killer was someone he had hand-picked himself. He was thoroughly set. A smile made itself evident on his face by the time Anino had come back from the kitchen, a black lacquered tray being held by both hands. She hummed a sweet tune coming towards him.

"Your tea, good sir." Anino bowed slightly as she served him the teacup, and then brought the pot into view, pouring the sweet smelling liquid. The small pitcher for the milk was set to his left as the honey pot rested on his side. At least, she would treat him like a royal in his final moments.

Barely a word was said between them as Anino took a seat to the left of the table. Her hands held the pitcher up to pour the milk, and she looked at him as if to have his permission. The elderly man nodded his head as he looked at her, his green eyes mesmerizing her that she almost poured just a bit too much. The serving of honey was done in the same fashion; she looked at him for permission, taking just the smallest amount before handing him the golden delicatessen.

"My compliments to the chef," Dittmer still held that intriguing smile while he sipped the warm liquid. It thoroughly filled the cavity of his mouth and coated his somewhat parched throat. He enjoyed it for what it was, and felt a calm wash over him. This was right.

"Is there anything you want to ask? Anything to get off your chest?" Anino asked in a delicate way, as she sipped at her own tea with a perfected practice.

It took Dittmer a moment to think this through. Whatever he said would mean nothing to the world except for the lady near him. Any secrets would both be taken to the grave. Words were just words being passed by two people who found each other on even grounds. He was a dying man, nothing could be held against a senile bag of bones.

"I have yet to know your name," Dittmer sipped at his tea and began to reach for the pot. Fortunately, Anino was faster and she beat him to it. Still she held a grace even when she poured, as if she had poured for high society in a previous life.

"Anino. Anino Flor."

The words hung in the air as they continued the ritual of her asking for permission with her eyes as she added milk and honey to his tea.

"Are you Spanish, my darling?" The added endearment sent the teapot rattling back to its resting place, as the young lady grasped at her face, hiding a delicate smile.

"Of sorts, Mr. Laus. My original roots are from the Philippines, but my mother did have a streak of Spaniards in her family." The timid confession intrigued the Danish elder, and he leaned in on his elbows, reaching for the small macaroon, and brought it to his lips. He chewed the sweet confection thoughtfully and enjoyed the taste.

"I was just going to say, you're quite an attractive lady. Now I know why." Dittmer couldn't help himself but wink at Anino. Her reaction making him laugh and pat her arm lovingly. He felt good tonight and the calm that weighed his bones down was inviting.

"Fortunately, I am unwed, and what are words when spoken by a senile old man?"

It surprised him at first, how this young thing grabbed and held his hand, squeezing it with indescribable emotion hidden behind her eyes. "You have been very kind to me, Mr. Laus. Everything that I've wanted."

And tears began to fall from her pretty almond shaped eyes; carefully she brought his hand to her mouth, and she placed gentle kisses among his knuckles and fingers. Anino worshiped him, she respected him, and she loved him. Dittmer knew this much. And in his final moments, it was enough.

"How will you do it?" The question hung heavy in the air, and thankfully he felt no fear ebb at his heart.

Anino never stopped kissing his hand and squeezing it, "I already have."

She put her half-empty teacup down in her saucer and stared at the body of Dittmer across from her, slouching in his chair. She sighed at the done deed, sad to see the light leave the old body. She stood up gracefully, letting go of his hand, and went about putting the tea things away, cleaning the pot and cups, stacking them gingerly in place in the cabinets.

She threw the poisoned sweets away, wrapping them in the doilies they had been sitting on. After all of this had been done, she returned to look at the body. It was harder, seeing him here, than she had thought. After their simple conversations she had grown to care for the man, seeing him as a father-like figure. And his flirting had amused her, even if she had never ventured down that path with another.

Carefully, she slid the chair out from the table, and put her arms under his armpits, dragging him from the chair and down the hall. A few doors down, and she opened a entry she usually kept locked, and came to a set of stairs leading down. She was careful as she walked backwards down the steps, dragging the body as cautiously as possible.

Two flights down, and she came to the basement level of her home, where all her plastination supplies were kept. It was good for her that Dittmer was small and frail; if had been any heavier it would have been impossible to carry him down here. She dragged him over to her workbench, a metal table where she laid the corpses, and hefted him up onto it rather clumsily.

She wiped her brow of the light sheen of sweat; maybe he had been heavier than she had initially thought. Anino could waste no time thinking however. She quickly grabbed her work apron and a pair of latex gloves from her bench and set to work preparing the injections she would have to give him for the formaldehyde base of fixation. After he would get two baths in different solutions, and then he would be set in the pose for the violinist painting he would inhabit. The hard part of course, would be in getting his clothes on after he was posed.

Anino set the needles near the body, so they could be easily reached when she was ready. Her gloved hand brushed a finger down his cheek as she stared at the lifeless form of her hero, and father figure. Just as she had done with her sister, the first person she had set these strange methods too.

By the time her sister was found by her father in the pose of an angelic sleeping beauty, Anino had been long gone. And two years later she had perfected her craft and set to bringing honor to her sister's memory. If she was truly honest though, Anino also enjoyed the time spent in her basement, learning a new form of art. Instead of painting people, she was posing them; a timely craft, but one well worth the accolades she would receive.

Anino shook her head of the fanciful thoughts, and instead focused on Mr. Laus' body. She dutifully set about removing his clothes from him. She could not have him hardening with the wrong outfit in place; besides, it was easier to work with the body posing it when she could see everything. If she tried to plastinate him with his clothes on, they too would harden and become part of the sculpture.

She set aside his crisp suit, hanging it on a rack for another day; she grabbed the first of the syringe injections and set to work injecting the formaldehyde solution into his body at strategic points, making sure that it invaded his cells and tissues.

Her work done for tonight, Anino removed the apron and stood, leaving her basement refuge. It would be at least a week before she could work on him again as the formula set him. It would be well worth the long wait however, to see him memorialized forever, remembered by the world as someone significant.

†

_Present Day_

Hannibal left the music hall, fixing his coat and gloves as he walked across the parking lot. He ignored the hordes of people that had gathered at the once great venue, seemingly to honor, but really to gawk. People were as fascinated by death as they were afraid of it. As he walked, Hannibal thought. The crime scene had been too much a love letter, a memorialization to the man than his last crime. It seemed that whoever had killed Dittmer Laus had known him personally, or had admired him very much. Whereas the first had been distant and cold, the second was personal and loving. The way his shoes had been shined, the suit cleaned, his violin placed lovingly in his old hands, it all spoke of someone who cared deeply for the man as a person, and a performer.

Hurrying to his car, not paying attention, Hannibal was surprised when a reporter stepped in his way.

"Sir, are you just coming from the crime scene?" A woman shoved a microphone towards his face.

"Yes," he stammered, trying to recover himself.

"And what were you doing there?"

Hannibal sighed. "My name is Dr. Lecter; I'm a psychiatrist. I was brought in by the FBI to consult as a psychological profiler on the case."

"Is there anything you can tell us about the killer?"

"Nothing in my chosen field of study is concrete, and in fact churns out as many wrong answers as it does right. But, in my personal and professional opinion, this crime was a love letter to Dittmer Laus. Every attention given to him was too delicate, giving away that the killer was a fan and perhaps a resident of Baltimore, given Mr. Laus' small circle of fame. The killer is too emotionally driven. By treating Mr. Laus with such affection, they have most certainly given themselves away."

Hannibal bowed his head politely and pushed past the woman, quickly walking to his car and getting in. _See if that gets someone out to play, _he thought as he turned the key in the ignition.

†

"You heard it here first folks, the killer may be getting too personal in their slayings, giving more of their psychological traits away, leading to a closed and shut case. Straight from the mouth of one Dr. Lecter, Baltimore resident, you will not have to worry for long. This has been Marianne Reed reporting."

Anino hissed angrily, violently, a sound tearing itself from her throat. How dare he! She threw the cup of brushes she had been holding at the wall, seething. He thought she was too emotionally driven? Was he trying to lure her out with petty words? What did he know of love and respect or even art for that matter? He did not know her, none of them did. She would show him attention, would show all of them what personal meant.

**A/N: Nerdy here, sorry it's been so long guys but this chapter had to be just right for everybody! OK, and PSA, side-note whatever: **

**WE KNOW THAT HANNIBAL IS NOT DANISH. IN THE BOOKS HE IS FROM LITHUANIA, HOWEVER MADS SPEAKS WITH SUCH AN ACCENT THAT IT IS REALLY HARD TO IGNORE IT. WE KNOW YOU SHOULDN'T JUST CHANGE CHARACTER TRAITS AND BACKGROUND ON WHIM AND FANCY, BUT WE WHIMMED. **

**Sorry for the caps, I wasn't actually yelling at you. **

**Vanyiah: Basically what Nerdy said in a nutshell! This is something to be expected from us, long chapters, late postings and eloquent words. But hope you enjoyed it thus far, leave your comments and reviews at the door! Thank you!**


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